


Always

by kiyala



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Community: 500themes, M/M, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-22
Updated: 2010-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 19:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur receives a call in the middle of a job, informing him that his brother has died. Eames cannot make everything better, but he can be there for Arthur when he needs someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always

Arthur's ring tone is a gentle, lilting piano piece, and it fills the workshop, cutting off a discussion on the architecture of the dream they're currently building. His team members fall silent and Cobb turns to him, eyebrow raised.  
"Ignore it," Arthur says, glancing at his phone. "Just my dad. It can wait."  
They shrug and continue planning out the art gallery they'll be constructing, but Arthur's phone starts ringing again. Arthur growls under his breath and checks his phone. His mother this time.  
He tries to remember if he's missed someone's birthday.  
"If someone's being that insistent about reaching you," Eames speaks up, not looking away from his files, "I'd think it's a little important. Family before work, Arthur. Take the call."  
With a curt nod, Arthur stands and steps away from the semicircle they've formed around Cobb's whiteboard. "I won't be long."  
Eames looks up from the dossier on their mark, noticing Angela—their architect for this job while Mal is home, pregnant with what she's hoping is a daughter—and Evan, their chemist, are watching Arthur with some interest. He can't blame them; it had taken him a good month after meeting Arthur to get his head around the fact that he was not, in fact, a robot and _did_ have some semblance of a personal life.  
His attention is then captured by Arthur's voice; quiet, concerned, and clear in the small break in their discussion.  
"Mom? What's wrong?" he asks, and after a long pause, he speaks again, and sounds devastated. "How… how did it happen?"  
Cobb's watching Arthur with concern too. Arthur stands with his back to the group, but Eames sees the way his shoulders sag, like a weight has collapsed around them.  
"I'll… yeah. Yeah, mom. Thanks for—for telling me."  
He hangs up and turns around, and suddenly looks older. It's grief, Eames realises, lining Arthur's face. Disbelief. _Pain_.  
He turns to Cobb, and he's made it a point to never divulge personal information in front of people unless he knows that he can trust them, but in that wretched, broken, voice, he says, "My brother just died. In a car accident."  
Nobody knows what to say. Not even Cobb, who's never been all that great at dealing with grief—whether it's his or another's—and it's Eames who finally speaks up.  
"When's the funeral, then?"  
"Next week. In our hometown." Arthur's voice is so very quiet, his eyes distant. "Same day as the job."  
Cobb rubs his eyes with his fingers and, still, has no idea what to say. So Eames makes it his job to stand up and place his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Take the rest of the day off. I'll fill you in on any developments we've made when you come in tomorrow."  
Arthur shakes his head, protesting, saying he's better off at work where he has things to distract him, and so he stays. They leave him to sit at his desk, don't comment when it takes him five times longer to read their reports, and all of them are giving him his space, fearing this sudden change in his demeanour and being unwilling to have anything to do with it.  
It's fucking stupid, Eames thinks fiercely, and does what the others can't, in comforting pats on the shoulder and cautious smiles.  
Arthur leaves for home at the same time he always does and it's as if nothing's different, if you ignore the look on Arthur's face that makes him look like he's just had the ground suddenly torn away from beneath him.  
Eames is still at his own desk as he watches Arthur leave and for a moment, their eyes meet and something passes between them; a look in those dark eyes that means either _thank you_ , or _stop worrying about me_. Eames doesn't quite know how to come up with a look that conveys both _you're always welcome_ , and _don't be an idiot, of course I'm going to worry_ , so he settles for a nod instead.  
Three hours later, he's knocking on the door of Arthur's flat, and carefully listening for any indication of movement on the other side. Arthur walks to the door—loudly; his feet heavy on the carpeted floor—and pulls it open just far enough to look out of the gap.  
"Eames." He doesn't sound surprised, but he does sound hoarse. His eyes are red-rimmed, his hair is a mess, and he still hasn't changed out of his work clothes, though his sleeves are rolled up and his tie looks on the verge of coming undone on its own.  
Eames sorely wishes he had somebody to blame for this. Somebody to hate; somebody to grab by the shoulders and shake, demanding to know why this is happening, and how _dare_ it be possible to make Arthur this upset.  
"I brought this," Eames presents a bottle of expensive whiskey, and walks inside when Arthur pulls the door further open.  
Eames pours them equal shares of whiskey into the tumblers Arthur produces from the kitchen. They sit on the stools at the kitchen bench and drink in silence until Eames clears his throat.  
"You were close."  
Arthur smiles at his glass. Eames would mark it as a special occasion if the smile wasn't so frightfully bitter.  
"He was my best friend. I never told my family a thing about dream sharing, but he knew exactly what I did for a living. He knew his little brother was a _criminal_ , and he didn't care. He never cared. As long as I was happy."  
His voice cracks on the last word and he bows his head, clenching his teeth against the tears he doesn't want to shed. "He was six when I was born. When I was a kid, I always thought he was so grown up, and I always wanted to be just like him. My brother—he was like a fucking _superhero_ to me. And he's just… _gone_. Like the world's playing a really bad joke on me or something. Damn it, Eames, what do I _do_ without my big brother?"  
Eames reaches over and places his hand on Arthur's back, just between his shoulder blades, and leaves it there. He feels Arthur relax beneath him—slowly—and the tension in his shoulders finally disappears.  
"He called me yesterday," Arthur says, in a small voice. "And I ignored it, thinking _damn it_ , he knew I had work to do and I don't like answering the phone when I'm working. I told myself—I told myself I'd just call him _later_ , because what fucking difference does one day make?"  
This time, Eames moves his hand to Arthur's shoulder, pulling him into a one-armed hug. Their heads rest against each other, and he feels Arthur trembling.  
"Your hometown," Eames says carefully. "…You grew up in New Jersey, didn't you?"  
Arthur looks at him. "Yeah."  
With a small nod, Eames takes an envelope out of his pocket and places it on the kitchen counter. "Glad to know I've done my research properly."  
"Plane tickets," Arthur says, his mind faster than his fingers as he pries the paper open. He falters, and looks confused. "Two of them."  
"I'm sure that if Mrs. Cobb weren't expecting, there would be three tickets and they'd both be keeping you company through this," says Eames. "But with the circumstances being as they are, I'm afraid you'll have to settle for me."  
"Thanks," Arthur tries to say, but his voice catches in his throat. He clears it and tries again; "Thank you, Eames."  
In response, Eames simply smiles, squeezing Arthur's shoulder before letting go and pouring him more whiskey. He doesn't leave until Arthur's good and drunk, and puts him to bed before letting himself out, with orders to stay in bed the following morning. When Eames turns to leave, Arthur calls out, his words slow and clear as he does his best not to slur.  
"Eames. Thank you. I mean it."  
Eames looks over his shoulder and nods. "You're welcome, Arthur. Always."  
As he opens the door, he thinks he hears Arthur say, _I know_.  
The next thing Arthur says to him is, "I hate you."  
Of course, this is the next day, around eleven o'clock, when Eames lets himself into Arthur's flat with painkillers, a little hair of the dog, and the news that they've postponed the extraction.  
Then, "Thank you."  
Eames combs Arthur's hair out of his face with his fingers and pushes the painkillers closer. "We've got a plane to catch tomorrow morning. You nurse that hangover, and I'll pack."  
They do so, with Arthur intermittently telling him stories about his brother—Ethan, after their paternal grandfather, just like he's Arthur, after their mother's father—and Eames would have to be blind, deaf, stupid, and possibly a _rock_ not to hear the adoration in his voice.  
Sometime during the afternoon, Eames slips out and returns with a small suitcase. He claims the couch, and Arthur doesn't protest. The entire day passes without a major argument; another occasion Eames would mark, under better circumstances. Whenever he notices Arthur slipping into his melancholy state, Eames comes up with a distraction, and while these come smoothly at first, it's difficult to keep it up as the day wears on. Arthur notices, but doesn't comment, content to let Eames do as he pleases for once. It isn't until later that night, when they're watching an old movie on the couch, that Arthur makes any mention of it at all.  
"Eames," he murmurs, because he's already said _thank you_ to him more times today than he ever has to anybody in his life. "If you weren't here, I'd be miserable."  
"I'm glad I'm here, then."  
"Me too."  
He rests his head against Eames' shoulder, partly because he's sleepy, but mostly because he's too worn down today to bother resisting the ever-present tension between them. Eames turns, his lips bare centimetres from Arthur's forehead, but he keeps the distance, however short.  
"You should sleep," he says quietly, and Arthur only means to blink, but the next thing he knows, it's morning and Eames is gently shaking him awake.  
He sits up, realising they're both still on the couch; that he'd fallen asleep here, on Eames. He opens his mouth to apologise, but Eames gives him a look, half-warning, half-affectionate, before getting up and mentioning that they should be getting ready to leave to the airport.  
Arthur sleeps again on the flight, his head on Eames' shoulder, jerking awake from nightmares of car accidents. Eames takes hold of his wrist, his thumb stroking soothingly, whispering into Arthur's ear to calm him down.  
"Do you want me to forge him?" Eames asks quietly, during their brief layover in Chicago. "So you can say goodbye?"  
"I really shouldn't," Arthur says, and leans subtly closer to Eames. "But thank you for offering."  
Eames places a hand on the small of Arthur's back and lets it linger for a brief moment before sliding it back into his own pocket. They watch each other, not moving away, until they hear their flight's boarding call on the speakers.  
It's just a little longer before they reach New Jersey, and then Eames is leading the way out of the airport and to the rental car he's already organised.  
"I booked myself a hotel room," he says casually, as they drive. "I can drop you off at your family home. I'll stay around until you're ready to go back."  
Arthur nods, thinking about the team, probably still at their temporary base of operations, in Madrid. The journey here has been long and tiring, but Eames doesn't show it. Just an extra day's worth of stubble, but everything else is neatly in place, making an interesting contrast to Arthur, who looks and feels like a mess.  
They part ways, parked by the curb just in front of Arthur's house, and they pause for a moment before he says goodbye to Eames and gets out of the car. Despite the sudden decrease in personal space and the lingering, comforting, touches, neither of them have made the step to acknowledge the wanting, the longing, the _caring_.  
"Eames," he says, gripped with the sudden desire to _say something_ , before he loses the chance.  
"Arthur." The look in Eames' eyes is soft, fond, and knowing. He reaches across, fingertips brushing over Arthur's forehead, and tucks a stray lock of hair away. "I won't be far. If you need my company, or if you just want to talk, you have my number."  
Arthur nods. He wants to thank Eames, but he knows by now that he doesn't need to say it aloud for him to know.  
"I'll talk to you soon," he says, and gets out of the car.  
Eames stays long enough to watch the front door open, but drives off before the tearful family reunion. He reaches his own hotel room and collapses into the bed, allowing sleep to claim him.  
The funeral, days later, is a small and quiet affair. Arthur makes a speech for his brother, and stays with his parents until the last guest has left. When he leaves the cemetery, he sees a familiar car parked across the street.  
Eames is sitting with the windows rolled down, a cigarette dangling from between his lips, and gives Arthur a careful smile.  
"How are you?"  
"A little better," he replies truthfully and walks around to the other side of the car, letting himself in. "I still miss him."  
Eames squeezes Arthur's knee, and Arthur covers his hand with his own.  
"I was thinking," Arthur says, looking out of the window, "Life is so unpredictable. You never know when something like this is going to happen. Just one simple accident… And the odds are probably even worse for people like us."  
"Are you having second thoughts about dream sharing?" Eames asks, and sounds terrified at the very prospect.  
Arthur laughs quietly. "No. I can't. Look, it's not important. I'm just being morbid and fatalistic."  
Eames' lips quirk into a small smile. "I see. So everything before was just _normal_ Arthur."  
Arthur laughs again, and somewhere at the back of his mind, he realises that he's been more open with his emotions in front of Eames in the past few days than he has been for the past few years of knowing him. He only wishes that it were under better circumstances.  
"Come home with me, Eames," Arthur says, and then reconsiders. "No. Take me to your hotel room."  
Eames swallows hard and pulls his hand back, away from Arthur's knee. "…On the day of your brother's funeral, Arthur?"  
"I'm not going to do him the injustice of sitting around and feeling sorry for myself. I need to _do_ something, and for the past few days, I was thinking… if I never saw you again, there'd be too much I'd regret."  
"And you don't want to have any regrets," Eames says with a small smile.  
"Never," Arthur replies and leans into Eames.  
They share their first kiss in a small rental car, parked opposite the cemetery. Not bad, considering Eames had thought it more likely to happen with one of them bleeding to death. Arthur wraps his arms around Eames' shoulders and they hold each other gently as they kiss again, curious and inquiring, then hard and passionate. Eames tries to remember how long they've been tip-toeing around this, and he simply _can't_. It isn't important anyway, he decides, and holds Arthur by the shoulders, pulling far enough back to speak.  
"Let's get back to that hotel first."  
The hotel room is big enough for two, because Eames has a talent for expecting the unexpected. They move to the bed immediately, but neither of them are in a hurry to get each other naked; they know it will happen, but the way they feel for each other has matured from the wild, animalistic attraction they'd both jerked off to when they'd first met, into something just as intense, but quieter.  
Arthur kisses Eames, and doesn't quite have it in him to stop; not that Eames minds. They kiss until their lips are sore and swollen, and Arthur's face is a light pink from the scratching of Eames' stubble.  
They pull apart and Arthur smiles faintly at the sight of Eames' lips, plumper than they usually are.  
They end up fucking hard and rough, because despite everything, they're still _Arthur and Eames_ , and this is the way they fit together; the way they've always wanted each other. Eames is taken aback for a moment by Arthur's dominance, but then he's far too turned on to care, happy to let Arthur do whatever he pleases until they're both spent and barely have the energy to wipe themselves off before falling asleep.  
Arthur wakes later in the afternoon with Eames' arm around his waist like it belongs there. His chest tightens—and not in a bad way—at the thought, and he presses a kiss to Eames' forehead before getting out of bed and locating his boxers. There's a message on his phone from his father, enquiring where he is and when he'll return home. He frowns at it as he puts the kettle on and searches through the cupboards for coffee. Eames already has the place well-stocked with tea and— _there_ , Arthur finds a small, unopened box of his favourite brand of instant coffee.  
 _I'm with a friend. Will be home tomorrow_ , he types out on his phone, but doesn't press the Send key.  
"You sure your parents won't prefer your company right now?" Eames asks over Arthur's shoulder, surprising him and making him drop his phone. Eames catches it and kisses the corner of Arthur's mouth as he places it on the countertop.  
Arthur turns his head and sighs quietly. "You're probably right. I just don't think I want to be somewhere with such a solemn atmosphere. I don't want to deal with aunts and cousins crying over Ethan. I want to be here—with you."  
"We can't always have what we want, Arthur," Eames says, and then amends, "Not immediately, anyway. Once we're back in Madrid, however…"  
"That had better be a promise," Arthur growls, but his expression softens when Eames pulls him close. "I'm only planning on staying for two more days. We've missed our first window of opportunity for our extraction and the longer we wait, the higher the risk of something unanticipated getting in the way."  
He half-expects Eames to comment on the fact that this isn't the time to be thinking of work, but instead, he simply nods. "I'll book our flight, then. And perhaps I can take you out to dinner before I drop you home."  
Arthur gives him directions to a small family restaurant that he'd loved, years ago. The place reminds him of Ethan, but even if he doesn't mention it, he knows that Eames can tell. They're good memories, and he focuses on this fact. Eames rests his foot against Arthur's under the table, just keeping it there as a point of constant contact. At the back of his mind, Arthur wonders if somehow, Eames needs this just as much as he does.  
They part ways with a lingering kiss, parked outside Arthur's family home, and Eames watches him with a look in his dark, blue-green eyes that steals Arthur's breath and makes him think, as he lets himself into the house and retreats to his old room, that perhaps they have something that will actually last.  
He wonders if, realistically, it can when taking their profession into consideration. He lies on his old, narrow, bed, stares at the glow-in-the-dark stars his ten year old self had stuck onto the ceiling, and thinks this through. Eames' talents are centred around his ability to go unnoticed, to hide in plain sight, and this means that he's most comfortable at taking measured risks. Arthur has no doubts regarding Eames' strong sense of survival, but—well, accidents happen. He's learned that much.  
He shuts his eyes and watches the afterimage of the stars against his eyelids, and imagines Ethan shaking his head at him. The ever-present grin is on his face, but Arthur knows his brother well enough to catch the disapproval.  
 _Come on, bro_ , he can almost hear Ethan say, _I'm going to feel like crap if you're too afraid to try something good just because I got into one little accident._  
Not little, Arthur contradicts, and then pauses to acknowledge the fact that only he'd argue with his own imagination, and he reaches for his die just to make sure he's come up with it by himself.  
The weight is right, the ridges and scratches are all familiar, and Arthur smiles to himself in the dark, allowing himself to fall asleep.  


*

  
They return to Madrid and complete the job effortlessly, working as they always have, with Eames teasing and Arthur being exasperated, but there's a strong undercurrent to it all; a duality that is most definitely new. Cobb notices it immediately, and it doesn't take Angela and Evan long to notice it either—even if this is their first time working with them together.  
Arthur doesn't volunteer any explanation, so Eames follows suit. Except for being a little more determined to keep Arthur safe from rogue projections, Eames succeeds in keeping their relationship very much separated from their work.  
Until he gets an offer in Shanghai, for a different team—perhaps a _rival_ team to Cobb and Arthur, if such things actually mattered to them—and he'll be gone for the next two months. Not that he and Arthur had made plans to stay in Spain for long, but nor had they made plans to be apart, as embarrassingly sentimental as the thought makes Eames feel.  
He accepts the job, because it's good money and the team is more or less competent, and he talks it through with Arthur. This results in a bit of yelling, several attempts at calmer conversation, and some frantic sex. Yes, Eames will go away. Yes, Eames will come back. Perhaps not in Spain, but somewhere else, with Arthur, and _really, Arthur, I hadn't picked you to be the clingy type_ , Eames remarks with a grin, which earns him a whack.  
Besides, Arthur finally allows, there are always phone calls.  
So Eames leaves to China, promising he'll see Arthur again soon enough. He doesn't, because he runs into a couple of Russians he wishes he didn't know, and hides down in Brisbane for half a month before attaching himself to a team in Moscow to deal with an extraction and permanently resolve his problem with the small-time crooks that are determined to make his life difficult.  
He gets out of it, problem neutralised and his temporary colleagues none the wiser, but with a bullet wounds that he bears with until he gets to Estonia.  
Every single week, he sens Arthur a postcard. Most of the time, they have nothing written on them except _—E._ in the bottom right corner. Sometimes, he'll scrawl _I miss you_ in the empty space. From his hospital bed, he writes, _you're stalking me_ , and addresses it to the hotel down the road.  
The next morning, Arthur turns up at the hospital, postcard held between his fingers and a small smile tugging at his lips.  
"You'd have to be stalking me too, to know where to address all those postcards to," he says, bending over the bed and giving Eames a slow, lingering kiss in greeting. "So I thought I might as well do it too. I'm glad I did—how did you manage to get yourself shot by a man who dislocated his own shoulder by firing the gun in the first place?"  
Eames winces on behalf of his ego. "By assuming he'd be too unskilled to be lucky."  
"You're an idiot. You waited— _how long?_ —to leave the country before getting any medical attention."  
"I know how to deal with bullet wounds. Besides, it was a clean shot."  
The look on Arthur's face says that neither of these points change anything.  
"You could have bled out on your way. Christ, don't scare me like that again."  
"I promise, Arthur," Eames says solemnly. "The next time somebody brandishes a gun at me, I'll let them know my partner has a particular aversion to me being shot."  
"Smart ass," Arthur says, but he's grinning.  
Eames is discharged from the hospital two days later, and Arthur takes him to the hotel down the road, to the room he's booked for another two weeks.  
The bed is large (king sized, because Arthur doesn't do things halfway, and Eames feels lonely at the very thought of him sleeping there by himself) but they settle on the couch instead, in each other's arms, kissing lazily and contentedly, with no intention of letting each other go any time soon.  
"Be careful next time," Arthur says, because he knows Eames and knows full well that there _will_ be a next time.  
"Perhaps next time, I'll have some backup," Eames suggests with a light smile.  
Arthur raises an eyebrow and considers it. He imagines wandering the world with Eames, not having to do an hour's worth of research every time he wonders where his lover is, or what time it would be if he called.  
Without quite realising, Arthur grins widely at the very thought. Leaning in for another kiss, he tightens his grip on Eames. He feels the forger smile against his lips, and the look in the dark blue-green eyes is nothing short of adoration when they pull apart for air.  
"I'm taking that as a yes," Eames says in a low voice, and he doesn't even need Arthur to reply to know that it is.  
Things go well, which is a pleasant surprise. They work together, just as often as they work separately, because they both know the dangers that come from being predictable. They live together, first in hotel rooms and then in small flats scattered across the globe under a plethora of false identities.  
Arthur even takes Eames with him when he goes back to New Jersey a year after Ethan's death. They don't stop by his family home this time, because they're on another job, but Arthur grips Eames' hand firmly in his as they walk through the cemetery and towards Ethan's headstone.  
"Hey big brother," Arthur greets quietly, and Eames squeezes his hand. Arthur gives him a sidelong glance and a small smile before he continues. "This has kind of been a long time coming, but… this is Eames. The guy I used to talk about, _all the fucking time_ , I think you said."  
Eames looks up in surprise, but Arthur keeps talking, his gaze fixed on his shoes.  
"And— _god_ , I wish I'd figured this out when you were still around, because I know you like being right. But I… I'm in love with him."  
Eames is watching him, mouth slightly open and a look of wonder in his eyes.  
"Oh, Arthur," he whispers, and pulls the point man into a gentle kiss; nothing more than the soft and fleeting pressure of lips on lips. Eames pulls away, his hand still in Arthur's, and smiles. "Arthur. I love you more than anything."  
He feels Arthur lean against him, and turns his gaze to the silent tombstone before them, with the orange-and-yellow flowers they'd brought. Resting his head against Arthur's, he makes a silent, solemn promise in the memory of Ethan.  
Not _I'll take care of him for you_ , because he knows that only Arthur can do that. Not _I'll make him happy_ , because that, too, is up to Arthur.  
 _I'll be there_ , he promises. To Ethan. To himself. _I'll be there when he needs me, and when he doesn't. When he wants me, and probably even if he doesn't._  
Eames always makes good on his promises. Always, and it's part of the reason why he barely promises _anything_ —even to himself. But he makes this one.  
He's there through the several arguments they have, over everything from sharing the quilt at night to the way their methods vary when they're doing research for a job together. Some of these arguments result in one or both of them moving to a different city (or country, or continent) until they've gotten it out of their systems.  
Then, they're too busy with work to return to each other; unwilling to risk the sense of security they've developed by explaining to other teams that no, they need to get home, which happens to be wherever the other is.  
Eames resumes his weekly habit of sending postcards, signing each with, _love, E._ , and they find Arthur without fail. This, more than the phone calls and emails, makes it bearable until they can next see each other.  
Months turn into years and suddenly, Mal is dead, Cobb is a wanted man, and Arthur is defying all logic, discarding any notions of safety to follow Cobb from job to job, running point for every single one of his extractions.  
Eames tries to tell Arthur that he's being unreasonable, and that he doesn't really need to put himself in danger like this for something that has nothing to do with him.  
The look Arthur gives him is pure poison, and the argument that follows is heated. Amazing make-up sex or no, Eames is a smart enough man to know when to leave a topic well enough alone.  
Even more months pass, and Eames' postcards are still arriving once a week. Occasionally, they'll have a barely legible, often misspelt scrawl that tells Arthur that Eames was most likely drunk when writing it. They say things like: _do you ever plan on seeing me again?_ , and, _does Cobb have something I don't?_ , and Arthur never reads them more than once.  
Then, it's Eames who receives a postcard. It's in between two bills, stuffed into the post office box he uses in Mombasa. It says, _I don't think there's any point in holding onto this anymore_ , and it isn't signed. He stares at it for a good hour before he picks up a new postcard, one with a bright, sunny beach on it, and writes, _Fine_.  
He sends that one the next day, to Auckland, New Zealand. A week later, he drops another postcard into the mailbox, this time left blank except for the address. Just like the others that follow, every single week.  
After the Fischer job is complete, Eames walks out of Los Angeles International Airport, debating over the Sydney postcard he'd picked up before the flight, or buying a new one from here. He passes Arthur on his way and they glance at each other for a moment, all thoughts of postcards pushed out of Eames' mind.  
"Goodbye, then," Eames says with an easy smile that he doesn't mean.  
At the same time, Arthur says "Drink?" and then promptly shuts his mouth.  
Before Arthur can take this as a rejection, Eames touches his wrist. "Where?"  
There's a flicker of something—happiness, or hope, perhaps both—in Arthur's eyes as he slowly pulls his hand away. "I'm staying at the Hilton tonight."  
"What a coincidence," Eames says, and it's one of the rare times in his life where he's uttered the words and actually meant them. "So am I."  
This time, Arthur flashes him a proper smile. "You want to share a cab?"  
"Oh, if you insist."  
They both check into their hotel rooms. Eames' is on a lower level than Arthur's, and they both end up there. It's a very comfortable size for both of them, and they leave their bags against the wall before Eames makes tea and coffee for them both.  
While they wait for the water to boil, he pulls Arthur into his arms without a word.  
"Eames, I'm sorry—"  
"Shh, Arthur," Eames interrupts and kisses him gently.  
"—Sorry I sent you that postcard. I was stupid."  
Eames smiles and rubs his nose against Arthur's. "Yes, well it didn't stop me from sending you those postcards now, did it?"  
Arthur's arms curl around Eames and pull him closer. "I can't tell you how glad I am for that."  
They've both checked into their hotel rooms, having booked them for a week. During that week, Arthur doesn't go up to his own room once.  
After that week, however, they both have to leave. Arthur plans to visit his family in New Jersey again, and Eames receives a call about potential work in Macedonia, so they part after one last round of passionate sex, intending to see each other again as soon as possible.  
They don't, for another month, but then Eames finally manages to free his schedule and turns down two job offers to make his way to San Francisco, to Arthur's favourite of the several residences he owns.  
"You're a little late," Arthur greets him at the door in jeans and a hoodie, and the sight makes Eames' heart beat faster every single time.  
"Take it up with Sanders," Eames murmurs, promptly burying his face against Arthur's neck and breathing in the scent he's come to associate with home. "Actually, I don't quite mind if you _do_ take it up with Sanders. Bloody incompetent point man if there ever was one. Even if I've been spoiled by working with the best."  
Arthur chuckles and pulls him into the small house, indicating the food already waiting for him. "Go ahead and eat. Then we can take care of other matters. Like the fact that neither of us have gotten laid for a month."  
Eames snorts as he shovels food into his mouth. "The phone sex last week counts. I do recall you thoroughly enjoying it."  
"Yes, well," Arthur's hands settle on Eames' shoulders and then trail down to his biceps, "I think we'd both greatly prefer if you could finish eating so we could move to the bedroom."  
Barely five minutes later, Eames is kissing Arthur, undressing him, and walking them both towards the bedroom.  
"Fuck, _Eames_ ," Arthur gasps, hooking a leg around him and grinding. It feels so good, after so long, that they lose balance and Eames steadies them against a nearby door.  
"Your study will have to do," he growls out, remembering the layout of every one of their residences—shared or separate—in perfect detail. "Closer than your bedroom, Arthur."  
He opens the door and drags Arthur inside, with the full intention of pushing him up against the wall and screwing him until they're both hoarse—but he sees something that makes him pause.  
On the wall, above Arthur's computer desk, is a corkboard covered in postcards. There are so many that they span across the entire wall, and still overlap. Arthur looks up, to see what has Eames so transfixed, and makes a quiet sound of embarrassment.  
"You weren't supposed to see those," he says, and Eames distantly realises that indeed, he'd never been in the study in this house before. He wants to chuckle, and pretend that he finds this amusing and adorable when in reality, he's breathless with awe, and deeply moved. Then again, Arthur has always been far too good at seeing through his lies anyway.  
"I kept every single one. Since that first time, from Shanghai." Arthur indicates the wall in a sweeping motion and Eames realises they're all pinned up in chronological order. He turns to Arthur, whose hoodie is lying somewhere on the floor of the lounge room, and whose shirt is pushed up to reveal his stomach. He flushes a little and looks away, mumbling, "I love that they're something so constant. I wouldn't have expected it from anyone, and I never would have asked it of you. But I'm glad."  
"Do you know why I send them?" Eames asks, a little unnecessarily, considering this is _Arthur_ , and if he hasn't always known, he must have figured it out by now.  
"Something I said after Ethan's funeral…" Arthur whispers, and he turns to kiss Eames far more tenderly than he had been, just before.  
"You wanted to be sure in the knowledge that someone was there," Eames says, and he strokes Arthur's face, his expression open and affectionate. "And I wanted to tell you, Arthur, that I'm always there. I always have been and I always will be. Whether you like it or not. I kept sending the postcards, didn't I?"  
Arthur smiles, showing his teeth and dimples, and holds Eames close, resting their foreheads together.  
"I meant what I said when we visited Ethan together, that time," he murmurs. "I'm crazy about you and I always have been. He used to ask me to shut up about you because I just wouldn't _stop_. There are two people in the world that would ever make me comfortable enough to actually let me feelings out. And you—well, you're the only one alive."  
"You're mine, then," Eames says quietly. "All mine."  
Arthur nods wordlessly.  
"Good." Eames kisses him hard. "That's good. Because I've always been yours."  


x

**Author's Note:**

> I won't say that this was directly inspired by the death of Burning Dan Gordon-Levitt, but that it was the product of a lot of thought about people dying too young, or when we aren't prepared for it.
> 
> Many thanks to Bo, who did a marvelous job of beta-reading this for me.


End file.
